Terrible Faith
by Filter1970
Summary: Toby has a breakdown, CJ's there for him-- gives history


"Terrible faith". (J. Steinbeck, GoW)  
  
Dark and jagged shapes floated around the edge of the room, calling attention to themselves by their lack of substantive form-they could not be seen straight on. This in itself was disturbing enough, this lack of form and frame, but what seemed most disturbing and disjointed was the persistence.  
  
In the haze of the dream, he felt pulled nearer to the doorway, away from the perceived safety of the middle of the room. He knew if he touched the doorknob, if they knew he was near, the shapes, they'd try to keep him here. And he wanted to stay in the room. He didn't want to open the door. But nothing was able to make him stop, no silent prayers or inaudible cursing. He touched, and the door swung open.  
  
"Wait."  
  
With a strangled word Toby Ziegler felt himself come awake with alarming suddenness, the dream clawing to keep him down, keep him in the nightmarish fantasy which made his body shiver and sweat. He had halfway risen from the bed, arms stiff, and took gulps of air to calm his heart. He felt the pounding behind his eyes and blinked rapidly, dispelling as best he could the afterimages burning into his retina.  
  
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat still, arms braced on the edge, deciding whether to vomit or just breathe deeply-Toby felt nauseous and dizzy.  
  
"It's just waking up like that," he muttered to himself, finally lifting one hand to his chest and rubbing away the constant ache. He realized he was only wearing his pajama pants and grabbed an edge of the sweat-soaked sheet and wiped the coldness from his chest.  
  
It seemed an hour before he moved from the edge of the bed, standing stiffly and making his way to the bathroom. His bedside clock had read 3:21 when he'd glanced at it, and the frighteningly drawn face he stared at in the mirror told him he was more than a few hours away from a good night's sleep. Something like three days away, he thought tiredly. He turned the taps and splashed gaspingly cold water on his face, rubbing his beard hard and looking again. Nope-still look like hell, he mused.  
  
With the sudden determination which marked much of Toby's life, he stripped and stepped into the shower. He felt better with the sweat off his body, but became alarmed when he tilted his head back to let water run down him- an intense vertigo slammed into him and he gasped, throwing out his arms to keep from falling. The clang of the glass shower door scared him but he kept himself standing, arms locked, as he breathed slowly with eyes closed. When he opened them again he observed the shower jump slightly to the left, then settle grudgingly. Toby leaned against the wall and just allowed water to rush over him until it turned cold. Stepping out, he wrapped a towel around his waist and went into his kitchen. He was careful not to move too fast.  
  
If Toby had of late been a drinking man, he'd have appeared to any observer to have a bad hangover. His exhaustion, dizziness, headaches, and vertigo seemed patently hangover-like. Toby Ziegler hadn't had a drink for a week now, though, and his symptoms were something beyond alcohol-induced.  
  
"Sam, I can't make you do this? What do you mean I can't? You gonna stop me?"  
  
Toby was, for him, in a relatively good mood while he badgered Sam Seaborn. Toby was exercising his handoff prerogatives and had given Sam a short fifteen minute speech to write for the President's visit to a packinghouse and his deputy had balked.  
  
"Toby, come on-"  
  
"What, have you become a vegetarian or something on your off time? It's a little speech, in, out, bam bam."  
  
Sam frowned. "Then you do it."  
  
"I'm making you do it. I have important and weighty things on my mind right now," Toby had said, walking into his office. Sam followed, waving a file folder with meat packing information.  
  
"Like what? Where to go for dinner?"  
  
Toby sat at his desk and frowned. "As if I'd have the time. Look, Sam, just drop it on my desk in two hours. You can do this in your sleep."  
  
"Yeah, well, so could you. I don't even like beef, Toby!"  
  
"Make sure you put that in the speech, Sam, now go."  
  
"I hope you catch mad cow from McDonald's," Sam muttered as he left, passing CJ Cregg on her way into Toby's office. "Hey, CJ."  
  
"Hi Sam," she said shortly as she entered the office. Toby looked up from a memo and raised his brows.  
  
"Claudia Jean, and how can I help you?"  
  
The smile on Toby's face died as he looked at CJ. He knew her very well, and could read her face better than any Capitol Hill reporter, even Danny Concannon. "What?"  
  
"Toby, Leo and the President need to see you," she said quietly. Toby was out of his chair before she finished the sentence, color draining from his face.  
  
"Is it David?" he asked as he walked out the door of his office with her. She shook her head. Toby hated the concentrated effort CJ was making to keep her face neutral as they negotiated the corridors. "CJ?"  
  
"The President wanted to see you as soon as possible, and they asked me to get you, Toby. Just please-"  
  
CJ didn't finish her sentence as they came to the Oval Office. Charlie showed them in-why both of us? Toby wondered, his stomach freezing as they came in. The President and Leo McGarry were standing in front of the big Resolute desk and Toby immediately noticed both their faces were almost comically concerned.  
  
"Leo, Mr. President-can I help you?"  
  
Then Bartlet motioned Toby to sit, and CJ sat next to him as the President and Leo sat opposite, and Toby was hearing words and knew he was hearing them, and knew he was expected to react somehow but he couldn't. He saw the sorrow on both men's faces, the genuine concern, heard the voices, and through it all couldn't summon up a reaction. Then CJ took his hand in hers, he turned to look at her, and began to weep silently and almost tearlessly. Leo and the President left the room unobtrusively as CJ watched a dear friend stare into her eyes with uncomprehending sorrow.  
  
"Toby," she whispered. He kept staring, and CJ felt her heart break at the small tear that ran into his beard from his right eye. She had noticed he'd gradually been tightening his grip on her hand. "Toby," CJ repeated.  
  
And then he had fallen into her and held onto her tightly, her body reacting at first by tensing and then she gradually relaxed as she felt him shaking all over, desperate but soft sobs muffled in part by her hair. She held him close, beginning to rock just a little, one hand making slow, comforting circles on his back.  
  
Suddenly, Toby stood, shook his head, and sighed. He seemed almost normal again, but CJ noticed his dark eyes seemed shinier than usual and somewhat manic. He cleared his throat and adjusted his tie.  
  
"Thank-thank you."  
  
"Can I do anything right now for you?" she asked, worried at his turnaround, standing.  
  
"No. I've got-I have some things I have to do." With nothing more Toby walked purposefully out of the room, leaving CJ more than a little concerned.  
  
No one knew what had happened when he walked through the bullpen into his office. They all just saw their boss striding through in his normal half- surly way, entering his office, and closing the door quietly. He sat in his desk chair, looked blankly around for a moment at his desk, thoughtfully picked up his rubber ball, and began throwing it against the back wall.  
  
In his office, hammering away at the speech, Sam grew annoyed with the pounding of the ball. He never failed to marvel at the regularity of the bouncing, and though he appreciated that, and the fact Toby thought through ideas while throwing the ball, it nevertheless made it hard to concentrate. And it pissed him off.  
  
"All right," Sam said finally, after ten minutes of pounding. "All right, Toby."  
  
He got up and went to the office next door, intending to storm in, and was surprised by the closed door. Sam hesitated, began to turn the knob, and something caught his eye. He let his hand fall from the knob and peered through the shades in the office window.  
  
"Oh, Toby," he whispered to himself. Sam's glance had been caught by the tears shining on Toby's face, constantly renewed as his boss flung the ball and caught it, toss and catch, toss and catch. Sam was caught off balance- he didn't know whether to go in or leave Toby alone. He was still standing outside when Leo came up to him.  
  
"Sam."  
  
"Leo-I, uh, I don't know what's happened, but Toby." Sam said, trailing off as he turned to look at Leo. McGarry wore a serious, slightly sad look. "What happened?"  
  
"Sam, Toby's brother called. Mrs. Ziegler died early this morning in her sleep. Heart attack."  
  
Sam felt his stomach drop. "Oh. Oh god. When did--?"  
  
"Just earlier, about half an hour ago. I came to tell him to go home. What's he been doing?" Leo asked, looking in at Toby who resolutely tossed the ball, toss and catch, toss and catch.  
  
"Just-throwing that ball. About fifteen minutes or so. Oh, man. I was coming in to tell him to stop, Jesus. I didn't know." Sam felt miserable, like he'd been personally responsible for Toby's tragedy. Leo knew how Sam felt.  
  
"It's okay. Look, will you get CJ? I think he'll need some convincing to go home."  
  
"Yeah, of course. Be right back."  
  
As it turned out, Toby needed little convincing to go home. CJ knocked at his door. The bouncing immediately stopped as she came in. She looked at his tear-streaked face and said, "I'll take you home." A nod was the only response she got.  
  
On the way to his apartment CJ asked him a few questions, but Toby didn't answer any of them with a complete sentence. He kept his face forward and muttered an inaudible thanks to CJ when he got out at his apartment. Toby shook his head when CJ asked him if he wanted her to stay. He made to go up his stairs, stopped, and bent down into the car again.  
  
"I was the one," he said, voice very shaky and quiet.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Me. I was the one who suggested the home. It was me."  
  
Before CJ could respond, Toby had turned and climbed the stairs to his building. She looked after him, sighed, and drove slowly off, wondering what she might have said to make him better.  
  
Sitting in his kitchen, water drying slowly on his body, Toby wondered what he could have done better. It had been a week since his mother's funeral, an awkward affair as so many things between he and his brother were.  
  
Their mother had been Catholic, and though she had never objected to the kosher household or the boys' being raised Jewish, she had never converted and went every Sunday to an early mass at the church down the street. Toby had always wondered at her ability to negotiate both faiths, especially her ability to help the boys study for the bar mitzvah and answer questions almost as well as any rabbi. But he had always been closer to her than David, and wondered if their present half-healed relationship had anything to do with that. David had been their father's favorite, a studious but outgoing boy who excelled in sports and school. His sister was much older than the boys and by the time Toby and David were just hitting their teens Rachel was in Fordham, and though she'd tried to keep Micah off Toby's back, without Rachel there Toby lost a real ally.  
  
Toby was too serious to be much fun, Micah Ziegler had said, and Toby often was left behind when David and their father went to the park. But he hadn't minded. His learning leapt ahead of David's and in eighth grade they were both in the same class, though David was a year and a half older. Toby's quiet defiance aggravated Micah excessively and more than once Toby had felt his father's weight behind the open-handed spank or, as he grew up, the slap. David became detached from his brother, off-handedly polite but not affectionate. But their mother had made sure Toby felt love, compassion, and pride from her. She was the only one at his basketball games, the only one to watch him excel at baseball, and the only one who had any faith in his interest in politics. He had loved her excessively and deeply.  
  
Then why did you put her in the home? he kept asking himself. He spun a notepad on the kitchen table with his finger as he thought. Toby remembered his father's annoyance with Toby's thinking habits-"Will you stop with the paddle ball!" Micah Ziegler had screamed once, scaring Toby. He had been absently whacking the ball with the wooden paddle as he puzzled over an English writing assignment. Toby knew he loved to write and manipulate words. He had forgotten, and would keep forgetting, that he had thinking habits that were tactile-the paddle ball, a baseball tossed from hand to hand, the dangerous habit of walking back and forth near the stairwell while deep in thought. As his finger spun the pad slowly, Toby thought he had never done enough to keep his father happy-and he felt it had made his mother unhappy as well.  
  
Sighing, he pushed the pad away and leaned back in the chair. He was almost dry, and stood to get something to drink. Toby pushed up from the chair, turned to the refrigerator, and almost fell. He caught himself on the edge of the counter in time to keep from falling all the way to the ground, pulled himself up until he was leaning over the sink, and retched dryly. He closed his eyes against the spinning and waited for the bile and gastric juices from an empty stomach to come up. Nothing. He blindly turned on the cold tap and rinsed his mouth out. He stood up, waited for the spinning sensation to end, and opened his eyes.  
  
"Shit. Ah, god, please, stop it. Stop it now," he whispered. He reached and got the phone from the wall, and looked at it, considering. He knew it was still before five in the morning. Toby thought again about his nightmare, took a breath, and hit redial.  
  
Across town, CJ had already woken out of a bad night's sleep and was nearsightedly brushing her teeth when her phone rang. She jumped a little, spat out toothpaste, and ran to the phone. She almost fell over a chair in her bedroom and cursed her luck for running out of contacts. She crawled over the bed to the phone and her glasses, juggling both before getting the phone to her ear. "Yeah?"  
  
Toby sensed the frustration in her voice. He winced a little. "Hey. It's me."  
  
"Toby?" CJ said, fixing her glasses on. The clock on the table told her 4:18. She clicked on the lamp and focused. "Yes?"  
  
Toby leaned against the counter and nervously twisted the phone cord in his left hand. For some reason he felt absurdly naked talking to CJ while wearing a towel. "I'm sorry, I woke you up." He said it as a statement but hoped she'd take it as a question. He heard her laugh a little.  
  
"No, believe it or not. I couldn't sleep."  
  
"Is anything wrong?"  
  
CJ closed her eyes. That was like Toby, assertively making sure everyone else was okay while he barely held on to things with both bloody hands. She knew it was a defense, and knew he needed her to play along for his sanity.  
  
"I'm just a little overcaffeinated," she lied. "I'll be fine. Been up for a few minutes."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"How about you?"  
  
"Oh. I'm-I managed to get some sleep in, you know. Took a shower." Toby wondered why he couldn't just tell his dearest friend that he was terrified of dreaming, was almost constantly dizzy, and felt haunted by ghosts. He wondered why he was so very self-contained. "I'm okay."  
  
Oh, Toby, you are so not okay, CJ thought. She loved Toby, knew him better than anyone else, and in spite of all that felt herself growing tired. She knew he needed to grieve, to mourn, and knew he wasn't going to let himself. "Are you?" she asked him. The silence on the other end was answer enough. "Toby?"  
  
"I've been having bad vertigo," he admitted, surprising himself. As he said the words, he felt an absurd relief-he felt he'd now spread the stress.  
  
"Bad? How bad? And how long?" CJ was sitting up and listening closely.  
  
Toby shuffled his bare feet a little, nervous. "A couple of days," he said softly. He was lying-the vertigo had begun as passing dizziness the day his mother had died, and he had been ignoring the vague fuzzy headaches and blurred vision until two days ago when he almost slammed into a light post while driving home at 2 AM. Since he'd taken a couple of days off no one had noticed he wasn't driving anymore.  
  
"Days? Have you gone to the doctor?" CJ knew his answer already.  
  
"No."  
  
"And are you going to go in to work today?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"No. I'm gonna take you to the doctor myself." CJ was trying to reach her charging cell phone on her dresser as she spoke.  
  
Toby shifted his weight back and forth from foot to foot. He knew that calling CJ had been a form of asking for help, but he didn't know if he was capable of actually asking. He knew CJ knew that, of course-hadn't that been why he'd called her? "You have to go to work," he said softly, so softly she asked him to repeat himself.  
  
"No, I have to make sure you don't fall down some stairs and break your head. It could be a vision thing, could be stress-who knows, Toby?"  
  
"I've been off for two days already, I can't miss more work."  
  
CJ snorted. "Sam's doing fine. He's kinda liking it without you there-no bouncing balls."  
  
In spite of himself, Toby smiled. "I know."  
  
"Look. I'll call in and take a half day-Josh or someone can do the briefing. We'll head to my doctor and see if she can refer you to someone. All right?"  
  
Toby felt a weight lift from him. "All right."  
  
"Good. I'll pick you up at 730. Be ready. And don't fall down the stairs."  
  
Toby said goodbye and carefully made his way back to his bedroom. He changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, an old CCNY one. He thought it odd that CJ had told him not to fall down stairs. It had been a fall that nearly killed him which sent him packing to CCNY instead of Stanford or Duke.  
  
Toby had been sitting at the kitchen table, reading for the fifth time through his senior thesis on nonviolent protest as a means of radical governmental change, looking for just the right hook and the perfect synthesis of words and emotion. He'd received several awards for writing and was the editor of the school paper as well as a contributor to the local community paper, and his work was widely praised as more mature than his years. Toby's mom and sister were extremely proud of his work, his brother David distantly proud from MIT, and his dad not at all impressed. Toby had managed to win a smile from the old man when he'd become the starting shortstop on the varsity team. Toby would letter in baseball and basketball, and graduate with a A- average. Yet all the success in the world never seemed enough for Toby's father.  
  
As he sat at the table, he heard the mailbox bang shut and ran down the stairs to check it. He had been waiting for college acceptance letters, and though he felt certain he'd get into most of the school she wanted to, he was eager to go to Stanford, Duke, or Berkeley. His mother had indicated that they had been saving over the years for all their children's educations, including Toby's, and that they would be able to pay for at least the first two years of his education. He'd been surprised to find this out, since both Rachel and David had received full scholarships and never needed money. Toby felt he'd get some money, but wasn't secure enough to think he'd get a full ride. He wanted to be able to tell his parents to keep their money, Toby Ziegler was paying his own way.  
  
He ran back up the stairs with a biggish envelope in his hand from UC Berkeley. Trembling slightly, he sat down, stood, and sat again, squeezing the envelope between his fingers and wondering if it was thick enough to be an acceptance. He'd already received acceptance letters from SUNY and CCNY as well as Colgate, and knew what they felt like.  
  
Finally the sound of the downstairs door slamming galvanized him and he ripped open the envelope. His father came in from work as Toby was reading intently.  
  
"Don't say hello or anything, son," Micah Ziegler said shortly. Toby paid no attention as his eyes ran over the page. Micah tossed his jacket over a chair and sat heavily, exhausted but feeling a little drunk after seven beers post-work. He usually had a couple after work with friends, and today had been such a hard day they'd had a couple extra. Micah wasn't feeling particularly bad-he just never had much patience for his serious son.  
  
Toby ignored him a half minute longer, then his eyes lit up brilliantly and a huge smile broke out on his face. He raised his triumphant look to his father. "I made it!" he cried, exuberant.  
  
"Made what?"  
  
Toby stood and waved the letter in front of his father's face, coming far too close for Micah's hazy comfort. "Berkeley! I'm in, and maybe with a scholarship!" Toby crowed, not really paying attention to his father's exhaustion and irritation.  
  
Micah slapped the letter out of Toby's hand. "Stop that! Quit hopping around like a fool."  
  
Toby felt a little of his exhilaration drain from him. He looked away from his father, sighed-something he knew annoyed his dad, and leaned against the doorway to the stairs. "Dad-"  
  
"What? Can't I come home to a little quiet, for god's sake?"  
  
"I was just telling you I got into Berkeley. I thought you'd be happy." Toby was beginning to notice his father's absently drunk look. "Aren't you?"  
  
Micah looked up and saw his son, lanky, tall, self-assured, and expectant, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed. Toby's eyes were mildly disgusted-he hadn't yet learned how to hide all his feelings under a veneer of aloof annoyance and irritation. His body was relaxed, easy, confident with the effortless strength of youth-and all of a sudden Micah Ziegler hated his son Toby. He hated his intelligence, his youth, his pride-and hated that Toby couldn't keep his contempt for Micah out of his dark eyes, eyes he'd inherited from his mother. Those eyes, Micah thought in wonder. I've never seen him look at me like he looks at his mother with those eyes.  
  
Toby watched his father stand, steady if a bit nervous about footing. He shifted his weight to one side, leaning into the frame more. Later, he thought if he hadn't unbalanced himself, things might have been so different. Toby had often thought how a little balance in his life might have made many things very different.  
  
"Do you want me to run and shout, praise God my son is a genius? I have a genius son! And a genius daughter! What are you?" Micah was belligerent but not loud, and Toby thought he knew the mood.  
  
"Dad, I just want to go to college, make good grades, get a good job. I don't have to be a genius to do that, do I?"  
  
"You're such a-such a leftover! God, what did we need another of you kids for, I asked your mother. I asked her if we shouldn't-but no. And here you are, ready to leave. Like that."  
  
Toby felt he'd missed something, that he should be reacting differently but hadn't gotten the clues. He knew he should just let his father talk, as he had so many evenings before. He hadn't asked for anything since he as 12, had worked very hard and paid for his own small delights, his own bike-and still he can't give me a break.  
  
"Dad, I haven't asked you for anything since I was a kid. I won't ask you for anything for college. I don't even ask that you like me. I know you don't. So the sooner I'm gone, the better, no?" He had just completed the sentence when Micah got very close to him and he found himself looking down into his father's eyes and being frightened by what he saw.  
  
"Yes," was all Micah said before he gave Toby a hard two-handed shove that meant to dismiss his son and ended up nearly dismissing him forever.  
  
His unbalanced stance made Toby hit the stairwell wall awkwardly and he couldn't get his feet under him in time to prevent the fall. Toby felt something horribly painful in his back as he tumbled hard down the steep stairs, cracking his skull open on a stair before coming to rest in a limp and unnatural heap at the bottom. Micah Ziegler stared in half- comprehension at the body of his youngest son. His mouth opened, closed, opened, and then he went and sat at the kitchen table, staring mutely before him. He was still sitting that way when the scream came up from the stairwell as Toby's mother found him.  
  
The surgery and therapy cost all the Zieglers' savings, and Micah's insurance didn't cover such injuries. For a week Toby lay in a coma after brain surgery to remove pressure and carefully pick small bone fragments from his brain. The doctors greatly feared swelling and damage and worried aloud about Toby's possible recovery. For two weeks after he woke with a start from the coma, Toby was still considered critical. Small seizures afflicted him on and off for a month after that, though his doctors had pronounced him stable after observing his bullheaded stubborn will to live. He had crushed a vertebrae in his lower spine and was in a painful brace before and after surgery to his back. Toby Ziegler's recovery was considered a miracle-by all but Toby.  
  
Toby knew that the intense pain, the fear, the constant medical needs, were not miraculous. He felt they were a special circle of hell that Dante himself could never have conceived of. Every day he fought to convince himself he should keep breathing, keep living, and every night he prayed he'd die in his sleep so he wouldn't have to fight again in the morning.  
  
He couldn't tell any of this to anyone, though-the injury to his head seemed to have slightly scrambled the circuits between his mind and his tongue. He could think perfectly clearly and reason and argue with himself, but his speech wasn't coming out right. In a panic he had heard his doctors assure him he would recover his speech well, with time, and that the frailty of his right side would also abate. As many times as they told Toby he'd make a full, even miraculous recovery, that many times he silently wished they'd all go away and die. Better yet, he thought one afternoon, let them take my place.  
  
Toby knew his condition would improve-he was still quite rational when he wasn't writhing in pain or doped out of his mind. He understood everything happening, from his gradually normalizing brain to the need for painful therapy so he could walk again. He also understood his parents were going broke while he recovered.  
  
At the beginning of his second month in the hospital, when he was still having trouble speaking, his brother came to see him. David had come to see Toby when he was still in a coma, and had left after three days of no change to go back to MIT. He'd been frightened of Toby's appearance and was glad to see his brother somewhat more stable.  
  
"Hey, Toby. You're looking better, man," he said as he pulled up a chair. He noticed Toby had a small notepad on his stomach and a pencil in his left hand. David remembered Toby was right-handed.  
  
Toby gave him a half smile, swallowed hard, and scratched on the pad with his pencil. David leaned over to look. Hey bro it said. David felt his eyes sharpen with tears as he realized Toby still couldn't speak. His old fear returned.  
  
"Are-you look okay-I know, I said that. Can you speak any now? Mom told me you were trying."  
  
Toby nodded slightly. He swallowed again, forced his gummy mouth open, and rasped out a "hey". The effort was intense but as always hearing his voice pleased Toby. David smiled.  
  
"All right! It's a start, huh? Hey-what can I do for you?" David watched his brother scribble awkwardly.  
  
Need to get out. Going broke. Help?  
  
"The-mom and dad? I thought dad had insurance?"  
  
Not covered.  
  
"Ah-ah, shit. They're going through their savings-shit, Toby. Your savings. For college," David said quietly. His brother nodded. "Shit. But look, it's not your fault, you shouldn't worry about that-"  
  
Don't care-help. Make them use it.  
  
"Mom won't."  
  
No choice. Use it.  
  
David stood, tears threatening. He felt helpless, useless-and all out of touch with his family and his brother. He had the vague understanding Toby and their father had had an argument and Toby had tripped, and even David knew Toby probably was helped with the tripping, but he hadn't really comprehended how desperate the Zieglers were. David turned and stared at his little brother, thinning and surrounded by obscene medical machinery monitoring his every function, and wondered at Toby's persistence.  
  
"Toby, what do you want me to do? I can't make mom spend the money."  
  
Toby wrote furiously, ignoring the pain in his head and hand, disgusted with his sloppy left-handed writing. David wondered at the image of Toby struggling to write-he's such a good, natural writer. God, his life must be agony right now.  
  
With a grunt Toby shoved the pad at David. David picked it up and read slowly through the mangled writing: Im 18. it's mine-get it for me. Use it don't let them go broke-  
  
david help me-get it and pay for this pls I cant do it alone I cant so do it help me pls god dam bastard wont say I broke them help me!  
  
When David looked back at Toby his eyes were wet but his respect for the boy had grown. He folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket, nodding.  
  
"I'll see about getting it transferred into your name, and see how we get it freed up to use for your bills. Don't worry. I'll help, and we'll make it happen. All right, T?" David said levelly.  
  
Toby sighed in relief. He nodded his head and tried to form "thank you" with his lips. He managed a strangled "a" sound before giving up. He tried to put gratitude in his eyes and found he'd become so used to struggle and anger he couldn't do it. He wrote Thank You on the pad and David smiled.  
  
"I know. I love you, bro-I really do. I need you to concentrate on getting okay, though. Do that? Good. I'm gonna go start this stuff. You need anything?"  
  
Toby thought, then wrote radio. David smiled.  
  
"Okay. I'll even come down some days and listen to the Yankees with you. Be good, Toby. I love you," David said, kissing Toby's forehead very lightly, smiling down at him, and leaving. Toby watched him go, tried to smile, and settled for feeling happier than he'd felt in days. Thank god someone will help, he thought.  
  
Toby was sitting in CJ's doctor's office with his dizzy head in his hands, elbows braced on his knees. Beside him, CJ flipped idly through a magazine. Toby had been unwilling to talk much, and CJ felt it best to let him initiate any discussions. For her part, she was so tired she felt nailed to her seat with fatigue.  
  
"CJ?"  
  
She looked up and smiled at Rebecca Shindler, a friend from Berkeley who was a practicing GP but had specialized in internal medicine. "Hey, Becky, howya doing?"  
  
They shook hands, CJ hearing shots fire as her back unfolded itself as she stood. "I'm okay? What's up with you? Or, with whoever? Your call was cryptic."  
  
"Well-hey, Toby. Hey, get up," she said, tugging at his sleeve. Toby uncovered his face, looked up, and stood. Rebecca noted his apprehensive look as he got to his feet. "This is the man," CJ said.  
  
Toby nodded and shook hands. He fought to stay standing, and Rebecca noted that, as well as the exhaustion on his face, a small nervous tic at the edge of his upper lip, and the unfocused eyes. "Hi," he said shortly.  
  
"Hello. Why don't you both come on back?"  
  
She led them to her exam room, gesturing CJ to sit in a corner chair. She had Toby sit on the exam table and thought she detected a pleased sigh as he sat. As she bustled to take his blood pressure, she chatted and tried to pick up clues.  
  
"CJ, I hope everything's been going well, you look good on TV lately."  
  
"It's all fine-busy. Major summit coming up."  
  
"And you, Mr. Ziegler, you must be hopping over in communications?" she asked as she shoved up his sleeve to affix the cuff.  
  
"Oh-oh, yeah," he responded, feeling a little slow.  
  
"CJ's told me about you, that's how I know what you do."  
  
"She has?"  
  
"Oh yeah. You and Sam Seaborn, and Josh-Lyman? Lyman, right?"  
  
"Yeah, Josh," CJ said. She too was trying to observe Toby closely.  
  
Toby was focusing intently on the feel of the cuff on his arm. He thought he could feel the blood backing up into his head. He could feel the beginning of vertigo begin to run through him and closed his eyes.  
  
"Ah. Okay, a little high," Rebecca said with a neutral voice. What she had gotten as a read was close to alarming. 170 over 100 isn't right, not even for a DC political junkie, she thought. "Mr. Ziegler, why don't you lay back a moment?"  
  
Toby hesitated. "Ah, maybe not a good idea."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I'm feeling a little dizzy."  
  
Rebecca smiled and gave him a little backward push. "The perfect time to lie down. Go on."  
  
Toby allowed himself to be persuaded and felt better on his back. He obediently relaxed, somewhat soothed by the overhead lights, as the doctor took his temperature. When she shone a light into his eyes, however, he shut them hard.  
  
"Mr. Ziegler? Can you open your eyes?"  
  
"The light hurts."  
  
"I understand. I'll try to be fast, but I need to take a look, all right?"  
  
Toby felt a little scolded. He had never liked the light pen doctors looked into eyes with-it always left long-lasting afterimages of hazy faces, and it tended to give him a headache. But he opened his eyes with a sigh.  
  
His left eye only teared up as she looked, but his right eye teared up quickly and Toby felt his world tilt sharply. "Ah, ah, I need to-"  
  
With a lurch he swung his legs off the table and grabbed at the sink nearby, a hard wave of nausea hitting him. CJ stood to help him, holding his sides and trying to steady him as his stomach flipped, defiantly sending gastric fluids up for Toby to hack out. He retched briefly, spitting out as often as he could sour bile and mucus. Pain slammed into his head and even with his eyes closed he felt he was spinning.  
  
He wasn't sure how he managed to stay standing, but after a minute or two his stomach settled, the dizziness dissipated to a headache, and he pushed away from the sink. His legs were rubbery and weak, and before he felt he could walk he thought he'd just lean against the sink. He took a paper towel pressed into his hand and mechanically wiped his lips. CJ still stood next to him but had one hand on his back. She felt as nervous and tense as Toby looked.  
  
"I-I'm sorry," he said at last, breaking silence. Rebecca nodded, and took his arm.  
  
"Why don't you sit?" she said, guiding him with CJ's help to a low chair before a table. He sat heavily and gratefully accepted a cup of water from the doctor.  
  
"Thanks," he said.  
  
"You're welcome. Tell me, when did the vertigo start?"  
  
"Couple of days ago."  
  
"Was it this bad then?"  
  
"No."  
  
"And when did you last eat?"  
  
Toby looked up at that question. He had begun to answer when he realized he didn't actually recall his last meal. He supposed he had to have eaten, but couldn't remember when he had last had any food. "Uh-I don't actually remember."  
  
"Toby, you haven't eaten? In how long?" CJ asked, appalled. A look from Rebeccas quieted her.  
  
"Have you had anything today, or last night?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Have you always had high blood pressure?"  
  
"I do?"  
  
"Right now, yes. Are you on any medication? For anything?" Rebecca asked, though she was certain he'd say no.  
  
"Uh-I take Allegra sometimes. Allergies."  
  
"Okay. Have you taken them recently?"  
  
"I don't-I don't think so. I don't remember."  
  
"All right. Mr. Ziegler, I want you to lie down again, and just not move. I'll even dim the lights. I'm going to give you a bottle of water and I want you to just lie there and take small sips. I need to check on a couple of things, then I want to talk to CJ, then you. I'll send in a nurse to draw blood. Can you do that?"  
  
Toby nodded, wanting more than anything to lay down and possibly fall asleep. "Yes."  
  
"Okay. Here-I'll help you. All right-okay, just lay back," Rebecca said as Toby settled himself nervously back down on the table. He relaxed when he realized he wasn't going to vomit again, and gratefully took the bottle of water. He sipped almost contentedly from the sport cap as Rebecca ushered CJ out.  
  
"All right, what the hell's happened to him?" CJ began.  
  
"You tell me! Why's he stopped eating? His blood pressure's way high, he's dehydrated, experiencing vertigo, and I can't tell when he might have eaten last. I'm afraid I'm also gonna find something up with his blood, maybe low iron, maybe he's diabetic-what's been going on with him lately?" Rebecca exploded.  
  
The outburst stopped CJ cold. "I-he hasn't had an easy week. Last week he buried his mother, and I don't think he's had time to really cope. He seemed to be functioning mostly okay, trying to keep busy. He took a couple of days off though-he was supposed to come back to work today."  
  
"He's not gonna," the doctor replied.  
  
"I can tell. Look-I can ask around and see if anyone at work's noticed anything, you know, before he took the time. Do you think he could have caught something?"  
  
Rebecca sighed. "I don't know. Honestly? He might be experiencing something more emotional and mental than physical-it's just making him ill. Are you pretty tight with him?"  
  
CJ nodded. She was growing worried now, worried she'd not read signals from Toby right. "He's my closest friend, the goof."  
  
"If he's just lost a parent, he could need more time, to grieve, to adjust and get himself together. Especially if he was close to her, or if he'd lost contact and is feeling bad. But I'm gonna run as full a screen on him as I can. If he needs mental care, I can help and refer him, but he's not going anywhere but home until he's had fluids and some kind of nutrients. And for god's sake, he has got to get some sleep! He's falling all over himself!"  
  
"Okay, look-can you run your tests now? Please? Trying to get him back here will be like roping a bull, so the more you can do now the better. I'll take him back home, and try to get a couple of people to make sure he stays there and rests. And yep, he'll probably need drugs to sleep. Do you-should I look for a shrink for him? Because you know, the White House Communications Director can't just let his fingers do the walking-we have to make some calls."  
  
Rebecca tugged CJ's arm and they walked toward the front of the office. "Do that. But let me take some blood and run some tests, and he should have a vision screen soon. We'll get all the fluids we can so he can go home. Hey, Carol-"  
  
CJ stood in a slight daze as Rebecca got a nurse to take blood from Toby and schedule a return appointment. She felt as if Toby had managed to collapse all his past year's stress into one single week, culminating in his body failing finally. Though CJ wasn't overly concerned about Toby's physical health, she was deeply concerned about his mental condition. What they'd all gone through as Josh suffered after the shooting was something she did not want repeated. CJ was also certain she did not want to see her dear and old friend Toby Ziegler in anguish or pain. So what's doing, Claudia Jean? Just take him home-maybe my home? And shoot him so full of drugs he won't wake for days, she thought acidly.  
  
Rebecca and CJ went back into the room where Toby was alone, dozing a little, the bottle of water nearly empty. He opened his eyes, raising his right arm a bit. "They took blood," he said quietly, a smile on his face.  
  
"I know," CJ answered. He looked very content and sleepy, but CJ wondered if he wasn't a scream away from mania. She knew he normally slept well, ate badly, worked out little except for basketball, and prided himself on his workhorse stamina. To see Toby not only tired but also weak made her feel frightened for him. "You're coming home with me," she finished. Toby opened one eye.  
  
"CJ, this isn't the time."  
  
"Shut up. Rebecca's going to run some tests, and schedule you a return. You're also going to an eye doctor. And I swear to God if you don't eat and sleep today until you feel better I'm going to personally sic Carol and Ginger on you."  
  
Toby laughed slightly. "Fair enough. Hey, doctor," he asked, shifting to see Rebecca better, "do you think I could get some sleeping pills? I really don't seem to be able to sleep well."  
  
Now I'm really worried, CJ thought as Rebecca talked to Toby. He doesn't even take aspirin.pie, yes, but no drugs. Damn him.  
  
In ten minutes Toby was scheduled, prescribed, and somewhat hydrated. CJ swore to get food into him, to keep him home for a couple of days, and to make sure he slept. She thought Rebecca smiled when CJ said he'd sleep fine in her apartment.  
  
"Thank you very much for seeing us so quick," CJ said meaningfully. Toby nodded and echoed the sentiment.  
  
"Sorry for the trouble," he said, shaking her hand and forcing a smile.  
  
"You've got good insurance, Toby. Take care of yourself and I'll call when we know something."  
  
Toby did feel better on the drive back, good enough to ask to be taken to his office.  
  
"Pigs will fly first," CJ hollered at an intersection. Toby winced.  
  
"Okay. Can I at least go to my apartment?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Okay." * * * * * * * *  
  
CJ helped Toby negotiate the stairs to her apartment, a lengthy process as he was almost asleep when they arrived. She leaned him against the wall as she opened the door and he stumbled in blindly, collapsing on the closest chair he found.  
  
"Thanks," he mumbled, his head lolling back on the chair. She smiled at him.  
  
"It's only a problem if you make it one, Pokey. I need to call around and get some stuff taken care of for today," CJ said, heading for her kitchen phone.  
  
"I just need some sleep," Toby said, voice colored with exhaustion. CJ came back out with the cordless phone in her hand.  
  
"I know. Rest there a moment until I make some calls."  
  
CJ went to change as she phoned work. She called Sam first, to let the deputy communications director know Toby's condition. Sam reacted well, all things considered.  
  
"Should I arrange for all his meetings tomorrow to be covered?" Sam asked, knowing the answer.  
  
"Yes. At least for tomorrow. Can you get Josh or Larry and Ed to help out? He's falling to pieces, Sam. He shouldn't be back at work for like a week or something."  
  
Sam whistled. "Man. I wouldn't wanna be the person trying to keep him down."  
  
CJ frowned as she pulled on a sweatshirt. "Better. Well, Sam, I am just that person. And I need to get the rest of the day off myself. Josh been doing the briefings?"  
  
"Yeah-and he hasn't screwed up yet. I think you'll be fine. He kinda likes it."  
  
A smile touched her lips. "Of course. Thank him for me. I'll call him anyway, and Leo. If anyone asks, he's got a bad flu bug. Don't let anyone know he's just burned out, okay?"  
  
"Sure. If you need anything-"  
  
"Yeah. Thanks. See you soon."  
  
Josh Lyman's response was more subdued and concerned. "CJ, do you think he's really having a bad reaction to the news? I mean, it can't be good, but I don't think he had much of a relationship with his mother recently."  
  
CJ understood Josh's concern-only recently Josh himself had been seeing a psychologist. She peeked around the doorway and ascertained Toby was still asleep before answering. "Josh, I don't know. He's not well, he's tired, and he's been having bad dreams. Something's up, but I don't know what. We may know more after the blood tests come in."  
  
"Do you want us to drop by, me and Sam? Keep him amused or something?"  
  
"I'll ask him, but I really think he just needs to sleep and eat. What's he like anyway, besides pie?"  
  
Josh laughed. "I dunno. burgers. Shakes."  
  
"Bleh. I'll have to fake it."  
  
Josh lowered his voice slightly. "Hey CJ, is it cool, him being there? I mean, I'd be happy to have him at my place."  
  
"It's fine. I can usually bully him into things, so maybe it's best he's here. Besides, you're a dirty boy, ew," CJ said, smiling at Josh's laughter.  
  
"Hey, I wear clean underwear at least twice a week. But seriously-if you need anything, call me. I'd like to see how he's doing."  
  
"Thanks, Josh. And thanks for doing the briefings. Don't get too comfy."  
  
She hung up and came out to the living room where Toby had collapsed. He was half-asleep, eyes closed and face relaxed. Toby opened his eyes as CJ came up.  
  
"Hi."  
  
"Hi," she answered. "You ready for bed?"  
  
Toby struggled to lift his head. He felt pleasantly tired, not sore and hurt, and in desperate need of sleep. "I can really sleep at my place, you know."  
  
"Bullshit. Let me help you up, you're gonna crash in my bed. I'll run over to your place and grab some clothes, but for now, Toby-boy-it's boxers and t-shirt for you."  
  
Toby made little protest as CJ helped him to her room, sat him on the edge of the bed, and helped him remove his jacket and tie. He managed his pants and shirt, falling backward onto the bed when done. He thought he'd never felt so tired before.  
  
CJ pulled the other half of her comforter over him. Toby was absurdly grateful and smiled a little. "Good, Toby?"  
  
"Yes. Thank you." He closed his eyes with a sigh. CJ was leaving the room when he heard his voice, gentle and quiet.  
  
"What?" she asked.  
  
"Love you," he said softly, and she left to the sound of a contented sigh and deep breathing.  
  
Across town, CJ let herself into Toby's apartment and immediately knocked over a stack of book near the door. She noticed they were from a library and smiled. She never knew anyone, with the possible exception of the President, who read as much as Toby.  
  
A search of his bedroom netted a couple of shirts and some jeans, as well as boxers and socks. She tossed them in a gym bag on his floor and added his razor and toothbrush. How long he gonna be there, girl? She asked herself, and smiled. She looked at his bedside table for anything he might want and noticed he'd been reading The Grapes of Wrath. She added it to his bag and went back out, collaring his unopened mail on the way out the door.  
  
Toby slept soundly for a few hours, long enough for CJ to work out, shower, and start dinner. His sleep was dreamless for the first time in days and though he couldn't appreciate that fully, he felt rested when he woke up.  
  
He tried to get up from the bed, but managed only to roll on his side. Toby felt very weak, very shaky, as if his muscles refused to wake up and support his body. He tried a couple of times to swing his legs to the floor, and failing that, he croaked out a hoarse call.  
  
CJ heard the second call, and went into her bedroom, drying her hands on a towel. "Hey, you're alive! How ya doing?" she asked as she pulled a chair up to the bed. Toby frowned.  
  
"I can't get up," he said, and frowned deeper when CJ laughed.  
  
"I know. It's kind of wonderful. A beached Toby. A full-stop Toby. The wonder-boy speechwriter perpetual motion machine ground to a halt. It's fabulous."  
  
"It's not," he answered, trying to be angry but failing.  
  
"Oh, Toby, I'm kidding. But sleep is good for you now. And food will be too. You hungry?"  
  
Toby considered his body. "Yeah."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Will you help me up?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Together they got him back into the living room and deposited on the couch. She propped his feet up on the coffee table and drew a blanket over him. Toby felt himself a little sheepish at his weakness.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said, a guilty look on his face.  
  
"Why? For overworking until you collapse? For not letting anyone know you needed help? Ah, for that, I accept an apology. Anything else-can it, mister."  
  
Toby smiled, a real smile that touched his chocolate eyes. "All right. Thanks, though."  
  
"Good."  
  
CJ whirred up a strawberry smoothy for Toby and brought it out on a tray with her own chicken salad sandwich. Toby eyed her meal with relish.  
  
"Sorry, Charlie. Smoothy for you."  
  
He found to his astonishment that he could barely hold the drink in his hands. CJ sat next to him and held the glass as he sipped from a straw. The drink was fantastically refreshing, and Toby's stomach began to wake and stretch.  
  
"That's good," he said halfway through.  
  
"I'm glad. If you're good I'll give you real food later. How long had it been since you'd eaten, Toby?" CJ asked. Toby considered briefly.  
  
"I think, except for coffee or soda, maybe a couple of days. I don't think I even gave it much thought. Maybe I had a bagel or something."  
  
CJ felt more fear than she showed. What the hell was he thinking? Or, not thinking? How could he have eaten so little? "Well, did you even feel hungry, Toby?"  
  
"I don't know. You know, sometimes you're just not very hungry."  
  
"Toby, you eat all the time! Pie, fries, whatever. it doesn't make sense you wouldn't remember to eat."  
  
"I didn't," he said, a little petulantly as he finished his drink. "I just didn't. Other stuff on my mind."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"Like writing the next speech, reading polls, negotiating with boneheaded members of Congress and oh yeah, my mother dying. It was a busy week, CJ," he said, and she felt the rebuke. She knew it was deserved, but knew if she let it go now he'd shut down about it for good, or for a good long time. CJ didn't want this to explode into something like Josh's nightmarish moments of reliving the shooting. Toby's sense of self-control was so immense that when he did implode it rocked him deeply, and he resisted going down that path at any cost. It meant he was strictly disciplined, fanatically punctual, and detail-oriented to the last dot of the last i. It also meant he didn't have any internal mechanism for dealing with himself when he couldn't cope with something. When Toby needed to crash and burn, CJ knew from experience with him, he denied he was going down until it was too late and then the mess was terrific.  
  
"Toby, I get it. I know. We've all had to do that, most of us after the shooting. I know you hate talking about this stuff. So, do it with me, or do it with Stanley. But do it, and soon, because the Communications Director can't be falling down the White House stairs!"  
  
She got up and went into the kitchen to put the glass in the dishwasher. She remained longer than strictly necessary to calm down. It wasn't just his stubborn nature-CJ cared more than a little about Toby and their shared history meant she also knew a little about his family and life before Jed Bartlet. * * * * * * *  
  
CJ had been a campaign intern for a New Jersey candidate for Congress when she first met the mercurial Toby Ziegler. He was a CCNY grad in communications and English who had been trying to get into higher level political campaigning but his string of failures haunted him. He just hadn't found a fit.  
  
CJ was working on her umpteenth press release-she regretted letting them know she had any writing talent at all-when a crash outside her campaign office cubbyhole made her look up. A gruff voice announced its intent to throw an intern out a window if he didn't find the person who wrote a press release. CJ grimaced-she'd written all of them for the last month. Who the hell could that be? she wondered, rising to peek out.  
  
A youngish, harried-looking man with thinning dark hair and piercing dark eyes was standing amidst three frightened interns. Though not the oldest, CJ's experience with several campaigns had people looking up to her and a wave of relief rushed over the group as she approached. "What's up?"  
  
"I'm looking for the person who wrote this release!" the man barked. CJ noted that he seemed excited and filled with nervous energy.  
  
"And who are you?"  
  
"Toby Ziegler, who are you?" He seemed a bit thrown at CJ's calm.  
  
"I'm the one who wrote that piece."  
  
Toby consulted the paper in his hand. "You're CJ Cregg?"  
  
CJ nodded. She thought, he's thinking I was supposed to be a guy. Of course.  
  
"Oh. All right. Can I talk to you?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
Toby turned out to be headhunting for his own campaign, another Congressional race in Maryland. He'd driven up to Jersey to find the person who'd been writing the releases for the campaign CJ worked on. Toby frankly admitted he loved her style and wanted her to defect.  
  
"We can probably pay at least what you're making now," he finished, and frowned when CJ laughed. "What?"  
  
"I'm not getting paid. So, if that was the offer I'd have to say no."  
  
"You-you're an intern? Jesus Christ! And you can already spin stuff like that. Jesus. Well-well, we could at least pay you," he tried again. CJ shook her head.  
  
"I'm here for the duration. Then it's back to California to finish school up."  
  
"You're still in school? Oh man. Why is my guy wasting his time with pros? He could hire some work-study!"  
  
"Well, I'm not a work-study, but by the time my career's done I'll be owning the press your guy needs. Thanks for stopping by, Mr. Ziegler. It was-interesting."  
  
"It's Toby. Look-I'm sorry I got off on the wrong foot. You're really very good. And frankly-you're better than our press person right now. I just write the speeches. I appreciate your loyalty, but I hope we can at least stay in touch-I think you could be really great at this one day-press secretary Cregg, no doubt." Toby rose and held out his hand. CJ shook it and was surprised by the brilliant smile that lit up Toby's face. Wow, he even has dimples, CJ thought, somewhat pointlessly.  
  
"I'll give you my address in California. I'd be interested to see where you end up, Toby." CJ scribbled her name and address on the back of a campaign card, and after a moment added her local and California phone numbers. "We'll talk press releases," she said with a smile. Toby took the card and stuffed it in his pocket. After a moment of fishing he drew out his card and handed it over. CJ read: "Tobias Z. Ziegler. Communications and Press. Drake for Senate."  
  
"Well, here's to luck for both of us. Give me a call when you're in California."  
  
"Oh, I will. Thank you again, CJ."  
  
CJ walked him to the door of the campaign office, where he paused. "Can I ask you something?"  
  
"Might as well, since we're tight now."  
  
"What's the CJ stand for?"  
  
"Claudia Jean," she answered. He smiled.  
  
"Nice. The Z is for Zachary."  
  
"Mmm, not so nice. See you, Toby."  
  
"Okay." * * * * * * * * *  
  
More than a decade later, CJ and Toby were sharing a bed as night fell. She had helped Toby change, smiling a little at his slight discomfort-"Oh for god's sake, Toby, it's nothing I haven't seen!"-and making sure he'd taken his medication. Toby had managed to down two smoothies, his appetite slowly returning, and they'd watched a little TV before CJ declared it bedtime.  
  
Toby felt remarkably better, snuggled under a fluffy down comforter, than he'd felt in a week. When he'd decided he would allow himself to be cared for, his body had relaxed and it seemed he was trying to heal physically. He wasn't at all sure how he'd feel in the morning, but for once Toby allowed himself the luxury of pushing worry aside.  
  
CJ slid into the bed wearing her short satin gown and sighed. She felt more emotionally burned out than physically tired, and pulled the blankets up to her chin. "How you feeling, Toby?" she asked.  
  
"Better," he said shortly. "You?"  
  
CJ smiled at that. "Ever the gentleman. I'm good. Be better tomorrow."  
  
"Yeah. Good night."  
  
"Night."  
  
CJ had almost fallen asleep, lulled by Toby's progressively deeper breathing, when she felt his body jerk slightly. She opened her eyes and looked over at his sleeping form.  
  
Toby was half-turned away from her, eyes flicking back and forth under the closed lids. His face remained relatively impassive, but she could see his brows tightening, tension lines appearing on his forehead as he dreamed. As she watched, his mouth opened and moved, as if he were speaking to someone. She listened carefully but couldn't make out the words.  
  
CJ continued to watch, waiting for Toby's dream to subside, when a short gasp escaped his lips, his eyes flew open, and Toby tried to push himself up. He grunted with the effort, arms sliding on the sheets, and collapsed back into the pillows, fully awake and sweating. CJ had caught a sharp "no" from Toby before he'd fallen back.  
  
"Toby? Hey, you all right?" CJ asked quietly, trying not to spook an already scared Toby.  
  
Toby turned dark eyes filled with cloudy doubt to her. When he focused and recognized CJ, the eyes cleared a little. He felt the coldness of his body and instantly knew he was sweating into CJ's sheets-why he felt it was important to note that Toby would have been hard pressed to tell. He kept his gaze on her.  
  
She reached one hand out and touched his arm, feeling the clamminess and trembling. His eyes darted down to look, then refocused on her. "Toby, it's okay. It's okay," she said, voice automatically soothing.  
  
With an effort, Toby relaxed and sighed. "All right. Okay. Just a night bear."  
  
CJ thought she'd heard wrong. "Nightmare?"  
  
Toby shook his head slightly. "Night bear. Comes back to haunt you from your day. John Steinbeck." His breathing slowed and his dream began to fade as dreams do, muddying meaning until Toby wasn't quite sure he'd had a dream-just the unease and fear indicated anything had been happening at Toby's Unconscious Mind and Grill.  
  
"John Steinbeck. Ah. So you are all right. What was the deal? You wanna tell me?"  
  
"I-not now. Maybe. Bad dreams. Mother, work, dying-and so much dark. Darkness everywhere. Something threatening. I-I don't know," Toby said, shaking his head. "I'm sweating, sorry," he added.  
  
"Don't stress it. I thought the pills would help you sleep?"  
  
"Did for a while. I'll just-maybe I should read or something. Puts me to sleep."  
  
"Oh-I brought your bedside reading-speaking of Steinbeck," CJ said. She put out her hand and found the volume on her bedside table. "Grapes of Wrath."  
  
Toby smiled. "Oh yeah. It's good for images-and pretty good writing too. Lemme," he said, holding out his hand. He flipped the book opened to a dogeared page as CJ turned on the lamp.  
  
The words swam dizzily in front of him and Toby swallowed, shutting the book. "Whoa. Can't read like that."  
  
"Making you sick?"  
  
Toby nodded with regret. "Yeah. Or, it would. Damn. I could take another pill."  
  
"No. Look, why don't I read to you? It'll put you to sleep, and god knows it'll put me to sleep. He's not my favorite but I can pick out a nice section where he talks about yams or something." She smiled as Toby frowned.  
  
"Heathen. But hey-if you could read just a little, it could scare the night bear off," he said with yearning.  
  
"Is it--?"  
  
"No, night bear's from Travels with Charley. I'd love you if you'd read Chapter 12 for me. Just a little? I'd bring you coffee for weeks." Toby halted. He hated himself at that moment-hated his fawning weakness and fear. He had no idea how to help himself, no clue as to what would make his nightmares cease. CJ would do everything she could for him, he knew, but he didn't want to trade on that. It just didn't feel right to him-  
  
"Highway 66 is the main migrant road. 66-the long concrete path across the country, waving gently up and down on the map, from the Mississippi to Bakersfield-over the red lands and the gray lands, twisting up into the mountains, crossing the Divide and down in to the bright and terrible desert"  
  
Toby listened carefully as CJ began, cutting his self-loathing off-the bright and terrible desert, he thought. It is just that. And lonely and frightening, and god, I don't want to be in my head anymore!  
  
".all of these people are in flight, and they come into 66 from tributary side roads, from the wagon tracks and the rutted country roads. 66 is the mother road, the road of flight."  
  
His headache subsiding, Toby allowed the words to wash over him, the litany of places  
  
"Hydro, Elk City, and Texola."  
  
and directions. Could use a vacation, mother, from you, if you don't mind so much, Toby mused. He flicked his eyes over to CJ reading, glasses perched on her nose. Waves of real and deep affection came over him and he smiled a small and wise smile.  
  
"There's California just over the river, and a pretty town to start it. Needles, on the river. But the river is a stranger in this place."  
  
**We met again in California. Los Angeles. Stranger in her strange land. Toby's eyes were closing and CJ's voice was moving away slowly.  
  
"Listen to the motor. Listen to the wheels. Listen with your ears and with your hands on the steering wheel; listen with the palm of your hand on the gear-shift lever; listen with your feet on the floor boards. Listen to the pounding old jalopy with all your senses; for a change of tone, a variation of rhythm may mean-a week here?"  
  
**I'm not going to listen to my head, I'm not, I'm not, the night bears aren't really there and I'm not a bad bad guy, I'm really not.**  
  
".California's a big state. It ain't that big. The whole United States ain't that big. It ain't that big. It ain't big enough. There ain't room enough for you an' me, for your kind an' my kind."  
  
Toby shifted, relaxing further into his side of the bed. He felt calmness stealing over him gradually, induced my CJ's steady reading.  
  
"People in flight along 66. And the concrete road shone like a mirror under the sun, and in the distance the heat made it seem that there were pools of water in the road."  
  
**I'll deal with it all later, Toby thought as he drifted into sleep, steady images and sounds following him as if he were on a road as a traveler, weighted down with his life. Later, later.**  
  
"Where does the courage come from? Where does the terrible faith come from?"  
  
**I couldn't mourn you, mom, I didn't know how, didn't even know what I should be doing in a Catholic service, I'm sorry-no, later, later, not now.**  
  
"But how can such courage be, and such faith in their own species? Very few things would teach such faith.  
  
"The people in flight from the terror behind-strange things happen to them, some bitterly cruel and some so beautiful that faith is refired forever."  
  
* * * * * * * * 


End file.
